


A Golden Path

by Lady_of_Rohan



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Cowboys & Cowgirls, Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hope, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Memories, Men Crying, Reminiscing, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22515568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_of_Rohan/pseuds/Lady_of_Rohan
Summary: After 10 long years, in 1909, John and Charles make the journey to see an old friend.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 42





	A Golden Path

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mephistia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mephistia/gifts).



> My gift for Mephistia, for the RDR holiday exchange! ♥ 
> 
> Some sad cowboys. I tried to find a way to include all your faves!

Ten years... ten years since Arthur's passing, and two since he and his family had found a home, amid their struggles, at Beecher's Hope.

In a way, it seemed to pass both in the blink of an eye, the beat of a heart... and at the same time, it felt like an entire lifetime ago.

It was a life John Marston had never dreamed of, not even in his wildest imagination. A life that was his own, a path that he had paved himself, after he was shown the golden way by a brother, a friend... and ultimately, a sacrifice.

The retired outlaw sat on his front porch, watching the sun rise, a cigarette balanced between his lips. It was quiet in the mornings, a place to reflect and be alone with his thoughts. Before the roosters cried, before Abigail awoke from bed and started keeping track of the day's chores... before Jack awakened to do work on the farm, and before Uncle (well, if he was awake at such an hour) started yapping away louder than Rufus did.

On such a morning, things felt heavier. The air felt oddly thick, and the ranch seemed deathly quiet, the rustle of bushes in the wind more perceptible, the slight chill in the early morning air more biting. As he adjusted the collar of his jacket, John swore he could hear the birds chirping more sorrowfully than usual.

He'd told the household the night before that he'd soon be off... on a journey he hadn't made in quite some time, but one he felt necessary. A familiar face from the north would be expected soon, to accompany him in their pilgrimage. Jack had wanted to come, too, but John reassured him that he'd be the man of the house while he was traveling. Taking care of Abigail and defending the ranch seemed to motivate the young man. Besides, his poor lady wouldn't be left alone to (quite literally) kick Uncle into actually helping around the place.

As John dropped his cigarette and stamped it out with his heel, in the distance, the steady trot of a horse's hooves was heard, the dusty ground kicked up from the majestic Appaloosa's feet.

Atop the spotted creature, sat his dear friend Charles Smith, looking a little less tan since he'd moved upwards into Canada, but healthy, regardless. Charles tied Taima to the post attached to the Marston's porch, and dismounted, walking towards John and instantly embracing him in his muscled arms.

"How are you, old friend?" Charles asked, his voice steady and strong as ever.

"I'm well," John said, smiling and returning the favor, though not quite as tightly.

Charles pulled away, to hold the other man at arm's length. "You look healthy. Abigail's cooking getting better?"

"Little bit," John chuckled. "Though Jack and I still sneak jerky in the barn some nights."

At that, Charles gave a polite laugh. "I look forward to seeing them. But first, we have another old friend to see. Are you ready to head out?"

"Sure am."

John already had his own steed, Jenny, saddled up and full of a day's worth of supplies. Charles was again on Taima, their pleasantries short, both knowing that they'd be sticking to their plan.

They could have taken a train across the countryside, but there was something spiritual, even nostalgic, about riding side by side, like a little piece of the good times of the Van der Linde gang still survived. Despite all the bad times... all the hurt, the betrayal, the pain. They rode into the golden sun, the weather miraculously free of rain, nor cloud, just like the good ol' days.

The air was still and peaceful, nature going about its seasonal way, lively, like Arthur had always admired. Colorful birds sang their songs along the countryside, coyotes chased and barked in their joy, and rabbits scurried along the dusty path towards Ambarino.

The trek was made in relative silence, the occasional memory kicked up in the light, comfortable wind, vivid as if it had just occurred. Their old camp sites. The places they'd hunt, or fish, or buy the best cigars. Singing campfire rhymes and drinking stolen moonshine... the spirits of the Great Plains, and the ghosts of Valentine, held the memories close, lest they be forgotten or buried. Left behind, like so many of their gang had been...

It was sunset by the time they'd arrived, uphill into Ambarino, where the water was clear as glass and the grass was greener than an artists' painting. A lot had been built since 1899, but Ambarino remained largely untouched by human hands. It was wild, still and young, as it always had been. The perfect resting place for their lost friend...

They secured Taima and Jenny by the nearby trees, before making the ascent to Arthur's final resting place. They passed the little moss-overrun house, a strange little abode that John had always been curious about. He'd never seen anyone occupy it.. and sometimes, maybe he wished that Arthur himself was in hiding there, the entire thing a cruel joke.

But in the East, there were no jokes, only death and sacrifice.

As they approached Arthur's grave marker, something gripped in John's heart. The memories flowed. The night he'd lost him, but ultimately gained a life of my own.

_"Get the hell outta here and be a goddamned man!"_

_"You're my brother."_

Arthur's words, his voice, his light Southern accent... rang in his ears, as if carrying over the mountainside and rocky terrain like he was right there standing next to him. Loud, clear. Poignant. John went still, boots paused in the dirt, as Charles approached the grave and knelt down. He looked like he was praying as he bowed his head, touched the earth reverently with his fingertips... so John stayed silent.

Some time passed, John unsure of quite what he was feeling as he stared at Arthur's hand-crafted cross, with biblical scripture and a cluster of beautiful flowers growing from the ground where he was buried.

_'Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness."_

John knew it was Charles who had picked the quote, in remembrance of a man's life and hardships. In a way, it had seemd they'd all struggled to find such a thing. Unquenchable thirst, insatiable hunger... to see the good in folks, be a better person. They'd all been swayed by the snake's tongue, seduced by the devil in Dutch's ear. In the end, though, John guessed Arthur had found his peace, perhaps in the most violent of ways.

At last, Charles spoke, as if their thoughts had gone to the very same morbid place.

"I'll never forget the day I buried him," he said, voice cracking somewhat. "He looked... at peace. No longer in pain. No more suffering."

John wasn't sure what to say to that, as he'd never been the best with words or sentiments. There was a time he'd felt better off not seeing his dear friend laid in the cold, hard earth... but now, he felt guilty for not being there, even when Arthur told him to run, run and never look back.

"He suffered so much," John said quietly, "I guess the past don't let us forget."

"Nor will we ever forget him."

John shook his head, moving a little closer. He felt... hesitant. Scared. What if Arthur didn't want him here? What if he was disturbing him, letting him down for the life he lead?

"Time is a funny thing. Doesn't feel like it happened so long ago..." John said, as Charles remained on his knees. "We used to argue a lot. But... in the end, he was better than most of us. Maybe not good, or bad... but better."

Charles gave a solemn nod, opening up his waist pack to retrieve a bouquet of delicate flowers from inside of it. "I brought these from up North. They were one of Arthur's favorites..."

Glancing at the lovely purple hue, John remembered the scent of sage often apparent from Arthur's lodging. Usually laid out to dry to make tonics, but sometimes, he'd see Arthur stick one of the beautiful blossoms in his hat, both a cowboy and a talented herbalist.

John remembered his own offerings, his hand dipping into his worn leather satchel.

Two tiny metal objects were pulled from its contents, glinting in the evening's fading sun rays, along with a booklet.

"These are from Abigail... said he brought her these thimbles years ago. She wanted him to have 'em. And a storybook, from Jack's childhood. Brought them both a lot of joy..."

Maybe John hadn't brought them joy during that time, and the thought, back then, had almost killed him... that Arthur would try to be a father figure when he wasn't around. But now? Hell, he was grateful. How'd that saying go? Something about hindsight? Whatever it was, John felt blessed that Arthur had offered some comfort to his family... and for literally saving his wife and child on more than one occasion... for saving _him_. For taking care of things when he was too stubborn, foolish, wild and young to be anything different.

Charles regarded him with quiet encouragement, and at last, John felt the courage to stand beside where Charles knelt, lifting the worn, bullet-riddled leather hat from his own head. He held it in his hands, fingertips tracing its brim... the years of age there, like lines on one's face or battle-scars showing the test of time. A testament of all they'd been through, their entire journey, in one simple object.

"I'm not quite sure how to say this," John started. He cleared his throat. "You know I'm no poet... but I've worn this every day. I feel like... I don't need it any more. You helped me wear this hat, until it fit me... until I was a better man, and a better father... hell, even a better husband. This hat is yours, Arthur Morgan, you were always the golden one... I was just unpolished bronze, tryin' to be like you. I hope you'd be proud'a me. I miss you... brother."

John got down on his knees, placing the hat amidst the vibrant cluster of flowers that accented his grave. In that moment, it occurred to him just how much he missed him. He wished he could have seen Jack grow. Wished he could have been there helping Abigail become literate... to have seen them married... stayed in their home, been a part of their new lives.

He hadn't even noticed there were tears in his eyes, until Charles looked at him. His cheeks, too, were tear-stained, as he reached over to firmly place a strong palm upon John's shoulder in an offering of comfort.

And so they sat, amidst the setting sun, the landscape bathed in beautiful golden light, quietly with their friend.

John wasn't sure how much time had elapsed. When he opened his mouth to speak again, his gravely voice was more steady.

"You know, if I met my maker tomorrow, I'm not sure I'd feel ready to die. How the hell'd he manage?"

"With grace..." Charles said, patting his shoulder. "The grace of a man who knew his fate, and what had to be done to pave a path. But look what beauty blooms here now. He's still with us."

From their right, something stirred, the two of them turning their heads to face the commotion, the sound of someone joining them. A massive buck, its fur gilded by the light of the evening sun, shining and majestic, stood there regarding them. The animal stared, stock-still, before dipping his head, and John swore he saw the glint of a scar upon its nose. They barely had time to greet the otherwordly creature, before it was prancing off down the hillside, dust in its wake as he ran towards the bright ball of fiery sun sinking over the horizon.

"Friend," John said quietly, stunned and awed. "I think you're right."

_'Face me to the West, so I can watch the setting sun... and remember all the fine times we had that way.'_


End file.
